Separate
by gidget89
Summary: Three part Post Ep for The War At Home. Goren's POV, then Eames. Complete
1. Chapter 1

It was always separate. It was how he had carefully managed his life, carefully scripted the days – the work, the interrogations. At what point had he gone off script? When Eames was missing and he worked for four days straight before sleeping? When he missed his weekly visit with his mother because of it? Or was it later- when he found out about her illness, or when _she_ found out about her illness, and subsequently broke – convinced that 'they' were finally coming to get her – that they were finally succeeding?

He didn't know when the script had been thrown out- when the careful rules he laid about each of his days had started to crumble, but now he was faced with the reality that they had. What was he supposed to do now? He had protested going to work- surely someone else could do it- Logan was sure to be free, and he didn't have a dying mother to care for. But no. He was the best, not Logan and the best was required. He didn't ask about where Eames had been pulled from when he arrived. He just went to work- eager to close the case. Maybe that was where it went wrong. He was eager- and following the wrong line of thought. So sure that this woman was just missing – not dead and not killed. Just missing – he could leave if she was missing by her own means. It was then , really that he had turned the page in his perfectly scripted mind – according to him, that was when she jumped in and supported him. But when he turned the page, her lines had changed.

She didn't think she was missing. She was focused on the fiance – then the lover. She was convinced, something had happened to that girl. He was frustrated, bogged down with trying to pull his usual miracle solve out of his ass, and perform for the brass, plus the constant calls from his mother – he had been weighed down. He thought she had understood that – thought she of all people would remove some of that weight. But she didn't follow his lines, she followed her own. It had given him pause, but he carried on, accepting that he could not change her mind, and admitting, if only to himself – that she was probably right.

The final straw had been the Commissioner – so completely wrapped up in his own grief that he refused to see his wife's or even her fiance's. In a case where everything was off script- apparently he too decided to write his own actions. He was a terrible writer- his reaction was unoriginal and petty and childish even, but there was just- just too much to handle. Faced with a cold man who judged him, a mother who clung, and a partner who suddenly abandoning him- he had reacted childishly, indulging in one moment of temper. When he was done, he had left. Left only to have her follow him, asking questions.

He had felt stupid, and tired and like the small child he had acted like. But to have her ask if he wanted the throw it all away- it was it all. The job wasn't everything in his life- his mother was, and had been since he was a boy. And he wasn't throwing that away – someone else was – leaving him to deal with the gaping hole her death would leave. The guilt and pain and relief. So he had lashed out, and hurt the one other person who could help him right now. He had known the hurt that would be written on her face, so he hadn't looked. He had tried so hard not to look at her as the door slid shut. But he had betrayed himself and glanced up. And the image of her face as those doors slid shut was burned into his brain. Hurt and more than a little pissed.

He had gone and walked around- seeking a refuge- from the expectations of Ross, the censure of Eames, the pain in his mother's voice. And he knew- he knew he had over reacted. Once again identifying his father in a man who clearly wasn't. The Commissioner had been right- he had no idea what type of father he was – and judging him in such a high stress situation hadn't helped anything. He had looked like an idiot in the squad room, and worst of all he had taken it all out on Alex. Who didn't deserve it- especially not since she had covered his ass so many times today.

He had gone back, tail between his legs to get on with work- and be a model of professionalism. He had assumed that their connection alone, often unspoken and exchanged through meaningful glances – would be enough. That she would understand and they would be fine. The fact that she didn't look him in the eye should have been a clue. When she had walked away leaving him to do the leg work, he had been shocked. He and Eames- they didn't do this. They didn't argue or have misunderstandings. They didn't let outside instances influence their work- but suddenly they did and it was. She lashed back and he sat there, stung by it.

She failed to back him up during the interrogation, and he was unable to understand it. He was sympathizing with the perp- and she was on Amanda's side. It wasn't like it have never happened before- they were often disagreeing outside of the interrogation room – but her opposing him in front of the suspect had never happened. Her stepping over that line with the perp had never happened, him warning _her_ had never happened. She wouldn't look at him before she left, she just got up and left. He had sat there, moving slowly from confusion – irritated and disoriented by the lack of their usual routine. The lack of his usual script. This was the part where she made the dry witty remark, and he made the insightful one. Instead he was left with eyes that wouldn't meet his and an odd unfinished silence.

Had they lost it? Would this one thing be enough to pull them apart? He couldn't- wouldn't work on them right now. He had too much else going on, like holding his mother's hand and contacting a brother he had frankly never wished to see again. She was supposed to understand, dammit- and now it was like she wasn't even with him anymore. The anger over this one small fact built in him as he sat gripping his leather portfolio. Yes, she had a right to be pissed- but didn't he as well? Couldn't he count on her- to just understand this once and not need explanation?

When he walked past her, he didn't look at her. He didn't see the expression on her face, as he stalked through the bull pen, declaring that they could fire him. Tossing his portfolio on his desk – the one that faced hers, and seemed to taunt him with their failures this time. The desks faced each other- but the owners couldn't. If this was it- if they couldn't pull out of this tailspin they seemed to be in- what good was loving his job if the partner that made it work wasn't _there_?

"I don't care." He mumbled as he walked away, not looking back. And if she wasn't with him, wasn't going to be there when he came back- he didn't care.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So I lied about it being a one shot. Sue me. Except, don't really. It's now a two part series, with a possible third part. I don't know, what do y'all think?

* * *

"I'll cover for you."

To be honest, I think I said it all then. But Bobby being Bobby – what I said two hours or twenty four hours ago didn't matter. What I said now, mattered. Frankly though, what I say now wouldn't be anything he wanted to hear. Maybe needed to hear, but want? Hell no. I watched as he stalked out – for the second time that day- I mean, _that day_, come on now. Watched a she tossed his prized portfolio on the desk and stalked off, and my first reaction was that I couldn't breathe. It felt like I had something sitting on my chest and my skin became alternately hot then cold. I knew Ross was looking to me – as usual – for the explanation. Always me explaining Bobby to them.

I walked away from him, and his expectant gaze, and sat at Bobby's desk, staring blankly at the surface – at the portfolio in front of me. Ross must have sensed the dangerous vibes rolling off of me in waves, because he never came near me. Neither did anyone else for that matter, but I could feel their looks. Poor Eames, having to deal with that loon Goren. They didn't understand- they didn't get what had just happened, but I did.

With Bobby- it's always take what I say at face value, but I'll over think every word that comes out of your mouth. At the best of times it's annoyingly endearing, and at the worst- it made me want to stab him with the letter opener tucked away in my drawer. This was definitely one of those letter opener moments. I sighed as the guilt crowded in after that thought. Now was not the time to be thinking these things – he deserved my patience, and the benefit of doubt. Knowing the thoughts were wrong didn't stop me from getting angry. Angry that he was being uncooperative, angry that I was doing more than half the work, angry that he could tell me to back off.

I can admit- I had a moment, a petty bitter moment where I thought to myself – fine. You want me to back off? I'll back the hell off. The petty moment had carried over into my work, which it shouldn't have. But when he had come back- didn't say anything, not one words of apology- not a look, nothing – and stepped out of Ross' office like nothing had happened, I was pissed. I had been prepared to let it go – he'd apologize silently with his eyes – the way he always does, and I'd smile and nod understandingly and we'd go forward. But he didn't do what he was supposed to do, and suddenly my plan to reconcile turned into a plan to piss him off as much as possible. How much was I supposed to take?

Alright so I find out about his mom during an interview, for christ's sake, and I don't say anything. I set it aside, and try to be there for him. I ask him how she is- if he needs anything, I do everything someone is supposed to do for a friend. And I get avoidance in return – he hardly answers my questions, barely explains himself and just expects me to step up and understand. The rational side of me understands that he doesn't talk about it because talking about it makes it real. I remember that, very well, despite the eight years that have passed since I lost my husband. Problem is, my rational side is fighting a losing battle to what I like to call the bitter selfish side. The side that screams that it's not always all about him, and why the hell does he have to make it that way? The side that taunts me with thoughts about how if he doesn't want a friend – I don't have to be one. The part that looks at the easy way out and begs to take it.

That side is a lot louder. It often drowns out the rational thoughts and wins temporarily, allowing me to ask questions I know he'll hate, and get pissed and be childish about it. I knew he would identify with the suspects reasons – after all, Goren was better equipped to understand this killing than most. He'd seen war – he'd known how things change when you're stationed with a military unit- and those men are your life for a short time. I knew all that – and I attacked in that room anyway. I chose to see the black and white, chose to ignore all the shades of gray, chose to condemn him. Biting my lip, I pulled the portfolio closer to me, running a hand over the soft leather surface, almost willing the anger it had been thrown in away.

The bitter side is louder, but it's not about volume. It's about longevity, and my rational side has that in spades. It needs it, believe me. It always wins out in the end- and I see more clearly, I hear more acutely, and I understand more fully. In a game where we play who can hurt the other the most- there are rules. I indulge in the action of anger, and by indulging I understand that it will most likely be me repairing the damage done. Normally this is easily accomplished. We argue, I balk, he gets quiet, I get irritated, I bring him lunch and we share the look. The look that apologizes and says it's an off day and I'm better now. The look he wouldn't give me when he got back. The look I childishly refused to give him in that interrogation room. The look I wanted to give him as he left, but he wouldn't look at me.

Sighing, I grip the portfolio in my hands, pulling it closer to me as I stand. He'll be needing this back.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Not quite sure I'm happy with this- but they're stubborn and refused to go much deeper. Go figure. Anyway, this really is the end. Seriously this time. Got to get back to my regularly scheduled fic, lol.

* * *

I had finished the paperwork- gone back to my parents and watched the kids do their pageant again – a day late but just for me this time. And still- even though I was exhausted, even though I wanted nothing more to curl up somewhere safe and warm and just pass out, not that it was an option for me anyway- I found myself in front of his apartment, cradling the damn thing in my hands like an infant. Gently. Several times today I had found myself staring at it. Bobby took this thing everywhere with him – I had wanted to just.. just look inside so many times. But I hadn't – I couldn't. There had been enough betrayals today without adding another to the list. Raising my hand I knocked, two short raps. He'd know it was me, but I wasn't about to give him the option of not answering. Everything was silent and still for a moment, but soon enough he opened the door. He looked like crap.

"You look like crap." I pushed past his large frame, even though he didn't invite me in. He should know well enough by now, opening the door was enough.

"Thanks." His voice was flat, and listless and I glanced back in concern. There were shadows under his eyes, and he looked haggard. Just worn down. I know he had gone back- sat with his mother, listened to her delusions, reassured her, lied to her and sat beside her bed until she slept. He was a good son. It was almost synonymous with Bobby Goren. I bit my lip, standing there, still clutching the portfolio, unsure what to say next. He stood, staring at the floor, running a hand along the side of his head, back and forth. Clearly he didn't have a clue either.

"I brought this back for you." I indicated the leather baby in my arms, and after a hesitant moment, held it out to him reluctantly. I didn't want to give it back to him, I wanted to keep it- hold it hostage until he talked to me. Worked this- whatever the hell it was- out. He glanced up, his eyes slightly red rimmed and his brow pinched. Taking it from my hands, he muttered his thanks as I dealt with the loss of something I had next to me all day. It had become a small comfort item in a few short hours. Maybe I needed to get myself one. Of course, the sole reason it had been comforting was because it was his. We stood in his hall , awkward silence falling over us. I simply stood there, watching him clutch the leather in his hands and shift his weight from left foot to right foot. Sighing, I decided that once again – it was up to me.

"Do you want me to leave?" My question was blunt and harsh, slicing through the silence with all the grace of a pirouetting hippopotamus. His head shot up and his eyes met mine – not the usual look, but anything was an improvement at this point.

"I- no, unless you have somewhere to be. Your family..." He trailed off uncertainly, and I could see the wheels turning, the slight downward pull on his large frame as he spoke.

"We're good. I just saw them. The kids did the whole pilgrims and indians bit for me again. Bobby-" I paused there, trying to think of what to say that didn't involve the words idiot, childish or petulant. Instead, I turned , walking towards his living room and his sofa, where a book lay opened on the coffee table and a small lamp was lit – the only source of light in the apartment right now. I sat down – feeling suddenly exhausted, and felt his weight sink into the sofa next to me.

"Just- just say it, Eames." His voice was quiet , it was hard to be anything but in a room where the hush fell so thickly, with not even a clock ticking in the silence. I turned toward him with a frown knitting across my brow.

"Say what?" The confusion was evident in my tone and he turned to me, his eyes shuttered and his face a granite mask.

"Say it. I'm an idiot- and I put my job at risk today. I threw a fit because I thought my stuff should come first- and that put you in a horrible position. And then I didn't even bother to thank you for being in that position, I just snapped at you for trying." He rattled off the list of things I was sure he'd been thinking about for the last few hours, and for once I couldn't really blame him, since the same thoughts hadn't been too far from my mind either. I sank back into the sofa, and put my feet up on the coffee table – which I knew he hated, but always allowed me to do anyway.

"Bobby- I won't lie. I was pissed. Beyond pissed. I wanted to hurt you today- and I think I did a pretty damn good job. You're not infallible Bobby- you're not perfect. You're human. And you allowed personal issues to intrude on your work. And I let you – let you bait me, and get to me. But when you left- I sat at your desk, and thought. And I was horrible to you-" My hands were shoved in my coat pockets as I spoke, my voice clear and steady. I had spent the better part of my day planning this, so I knew my lines.

"No Eames- you.. you weren't. You went out of your way to help. Even Ross- but it just- it just-"

"I get it Bobby. I get that you hate having everyone at work know what's going on with you personally. Especially Ross- he doesn't know you. But no one- no one there is judging you Bobby. They want to help- and you may just have to let them." I turned my head as I spoke, only to see him staring straight ahead, defiance written in his posture. "At the very least, let _me_ help. We're partners right? It doesn't just apply to work." His posture relaxed and he slouched back into the sofa with me, surprising me by propping his own feet on the coffee table- well his legs anyway, his feet hung over the other side.

"I'm sorry I hurt you- I didn't want to. I just didn't want to think, I wanted to escape, but I hated the way you were looking at me, Eames. Like I had just punched you- and I- I'm sorry about that." He looked over at me, his chin touching his shoulder and his eyes finally not clouded. And there it was. The look. I felt the urge to laugh and cry all at once, so relieved that it was there- that we weren't irreparable. Unable to be reassembled. Instead I smiled, the crooked half smile that let him know that it was alright. That we would be fine. The tension thick and heavy in the air seemed to dissipate with a sigh, and we both visibly relaxed, settled down a little deeper into the cushions. I spoke, despite the small voice whispering to leave it be.

"I'm sorry too- I acted like we were in high school, with the cold shoulder and everything. It felt horrible, Bobby. I don't like when we're disconnected like that. So just- please, I want you to try to share this with me, alright Bobby? It's alot for you to carry- just let me help you if I can?" My voice was soft, and strangely plaintive, but he didn't call me on it, merely smiled and nodded as I spoke. He would try, I know. Even in an unspoken agreement – he wouldn't take it lightly or throw it away, he would adhere to it. Releasing a sigh, I stared ahead once again, glad it was over- glad that we could move forward. We had a strange relationship – one that almost no one understood but it hardly mattered to us, as we understood it, and we were all that mattered. After a silent moment, I tilted my head, glancing at the table at our feet – or knees in his case. "What were you reading?"

"Crime and Punishment." He smiled wryly as he spoke, and she rolled her eyes.

"Russian literature to relax Bobby. Lucky for you I came over." He tuned his head towards me, and I could feel his eyes watching me, as I began looking around, searching for the television remote.

"Yeah, lucky."


End file.
